


On Stranger Shores

by Thefractured



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Inappropriate Humor, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefractured/pseuds/Thefractured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> </p><p> </p><p>Geralt smiled slowly, showing teeth. “Care for a round of gwent?”</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Quick note: there is a gap between The Lady of the Lake book, where Geralt’s tale seemingly closes, and The Witcher games. In the book, Geralt ended up on the wrong end of a peasant’s pitchfork while rescuing friends from a riot in Rivia. In attempting to cast a spell to save him, Yen collapsed. Ciri carried them both away to a place of safety and peace, but left them before they fully awoke.

The games pick up five years later with Geralt running from the wild hunt, lost outside Kaer Morhen and separated from Yen. His only clear memory: the long tines of that peasant’s pitchfork.

A great many things might have happened in between. This is one version of the story.

***

“Nevertheless,” Geralt sighed. “I’d like to know where we are.”

“Me, too,” Yennefer said, quietly, after a while.

\--The Lady of the Lake, Andrzej Sapkowski

***

It was late into the afternoon when he awoke again, and this time Geralt could move. Not much, not quickly. But his fingers could curl enough to touch the tip of each to his thumb, and he found all of them intact. That was a potent relief. He could feel the meadow grass beneath him, the cool humidity of the soft blades. The air was scented of rosemary, apples... and gooseberries.

After a moment, he turned his head. It took concentration, like moving through thick aspic. But the feel of soft black hair against his cheek -- that was worth the effort.

The sharp stab of pain at his temple, though, really wasn’t.

Geralt stilled, eased back a little, which was in truth all he could do anyway. He blew out a slow breath, listening to the metronome rhythm of Yennefer’s heartbeat counting out the seconds -- and his own, one for every five of hers. The aspirating swish, spaced between the muted organic clicking of his heart valves, was all but gone now. Certainly the pressure, the seizing pain through his chest was less. He was going to have to do something about the blood in his left lung, because the bubbling with each breath was rather irritating, but now he was sure that it hadn’t collapsed. Still couldn’t tell whether the wound in his gut had merely pierced his diaphram or gone through intestine, but he suspected he’d smell it by now, if it’d been the latter. The concussion was still a mystery, but overall? Good, he thought. Very, very good.

“Strange,” said Geralt eventually, when Yennefer’s breathing changed and she stirred. “I don’t recall being struck in the head. When did that happen?”

After a few moments, the sorceress gingerly pushed herself up on a shaky elbow to blink blearily at him. The bruising across her jaw had spread and darkened, the blood crusting her upper lip was dry. Hard to see how extensive the injury was, but the pattern suggested a glancing blunt trauma, perhaps a thrown rock or chunk of brick. If it had been a melee weapon, he’d be able to scent her blood on it even weeks from now, be able to link the thing to a person. But a thrown object was more difficult to trace. He’d have to track the whoreson down another way.

Yennefer’s violet gaze darkened -- reading his mind again? shit -- but then she glanced aside. “Ah, well. Yes.” She looked like she wanted to bite her lip, then thought better of it. “You… must have…”

“I remember everything up until…. Everyone from the tavern coming out after me like damned fools, but the mob was already scattering. They didn't have time to get in another blow. And then, white?” Geralt’s brow furrowed a little, which mainly served to remind him of the rather appreciable swelling at his temple. “Then the boat, Ciri, and the mist, of course.”

Yennefer cleared her throat. She still wouldn’t look at him. The sorceress said something so muffled even his enhanced hearing couldn’t make it out. “What was that?” said Geralt.

“I said I might have done it, alright!” Yennefer snapped. “Triss and I. Ow.”

Geralt blinked. “Really, Yen. If you were that upset about the whole bathtub thing, you could have--”

“No.” Yennefer glared at him, turning her head too fast and wincing for the motion. “We were surrounded by a mob, trapped atop a heap of, of filth and garbage and -- ugh. And then Triss -- we -- cast a spell together. Alzur’s Thunder.” She sighed, said more quietly: “supposed to be a wind storm.”

The corner of Gerald’s mouth curled up, just a little. “Didn’t turn out that way?”

“My diction.” She gestured at her lip, and Geralt was glad to see her able to use both hands. “I couldn’t speak the runes clearly enough. It--” Yennefer cast her eyes aside again. “Hailed.”

“Hail? Truly?” Geralt knew enough about bleedover between magic signs, and the inherent difficulty of weather-based conjuring, to be impressed. For a spell to draw rain from a clear sky, something usually had to die. “How large?”

Yennefer held up her fist.

Geralt couldn’t help it. He snickered, a half-chuckle, and immediately regretted it. After some time when the pain had eased and he could breathe (for a certain definition of breathing, anyway,) he tried again. “So let me get this straight. There I was, impaled on a ploughing farm implement, bleeding out, and you two decide it’s a fine opportunity to drop a Skelligan winter’s storm directly onto--” Yennefer’s look was withering, and Geralt stopped himself before he could tempt fate again. “Thank you, Yen,” he said, more seriously. “You likely helped to disperse the mob before they could do worse.”

“Worse! They did enough! If we -- ow.” Yennefer snarled, only to be brought up short as her lip split anew. She probed at it delicately, with the tip of her tongue. “It wasn’t meant to be city-wide. We weren’t aiming at you. Didn't even know where you were.”

“Sorry.” Geralt thought a moment. “Was that what exhausted your magical reserves? No, don’t look at me like that. You’re showing classic depletion symptoms -- impaired circulation, pupil dilation, I can smell at least moderate rhabdomyolysis; the headache must be --”

“Don’t remind me.” Yennefer’s supporting arm was trembling, and she eased herself back down to lay in the grass beside him. “But no. You were…” she swallowed; the sound was dry. “I tried to bring you back.”

“Ah.” Geralt gave that some consideration. The way the mob had seemed to swim in his vision, his throat full of blood no matter how he tried to clear it -- the way the boy had twisted the pitchfork in reflex, as if to tangle loose hay around those three long tines. Lucky, that strike. The witcher had been more than pleasantly drunk; he’d unlaced his armor in the tavern, had eaten enough to slow him. He’d had no way to stop his forward momentum; the boy had been lunging with all the strength that terror could impart. But still, a lucky strike to plunge up under that side of the ribcage, lucky to be at steep enough angle to hit lungs and heart, not just ribs or gut. At some point, he thought, luck and destiny became indistinguishable.

Ciri had dreamed once, long ago, that three teeth would kill him. Perhaps they had.

“Resurrection?”

Yennefer expelled a breath. “No. Well, yes. Martinelle’s Recrudescence. But that much damage, especially to the heart -- it wouldn’t have worked. Couldn’t have worked, in any case: the third harmony is meant to recruit pluripotent cells from the germ line to patch tissue. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Should I understand more than every second word of that?”

“It’s a spell that… hm.” Yennefer looked thoughtful, working up a good lecture. “It repurposes the very small subparts of your body that would normally make a person fertile. Somehow, the fact that you’re a witcher just didn’t -- what?”

“Wait. You’re telling me--” Geralt had to set his back teeth together for a moment, against another snort of amusement. “--you tried to revive me -- by casting a spell on my pric--”

“No! That’s completely incorrect-- you’re -- oh, hopeless!” She shook her head, tiny meadow daisies brushing her swollen cheek. “I so want to teleport you over a lake, right this moment.”

“No portals, thanks. But we could try that other spell of yours again in a few days. You know, the one with you and my--” Geralt offered.

“If I didn’t think it would kill you, I’d punch you,” Yennefer cried. But she let her chilly hand drop into the grass by her side, where it was just close enough to touch. “It didn’t work, anyway. Ciri knew it wouldn’t--” she stopped again, swallowed hard.

Concentrating carefully, Geralt flexed his wrist. “We are never--” he started, curling his sword-calloused fingers around hers, interlacing them, relishing the silk of her skin. “--telling Dandelion exactly what happened. He won't let me live it down if he learns I was saved by c--”

“You weren’t! Though you are an idiot.” Yennefer gave a choking kind of hiccup, gripping his hand. “But fine by me.” Then, more softly: “if we ever see him again.”

“Hn.”

They laid together like that for a while, the warm breeze rustling through the branches overhead, each leaf like a panel of stained glass -- darkening gradually now, as the sun sank lower.

“Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think --” Yennefer hesitated. “We don’t know where Ciri brought us. And you-- I’m virtually certain you...” her voice grew too thick and she paused, tried again. “There are only a handful of sorceresses alive today who could sustain just one of those spells, even with help. Channeling both, so far away from any centers of power, it should have--”

“Do I think we might be dead, you mean?” Geralt supplied.

Yennefer was silent.

“Doubt we’d still be in this much pain, if that were true,” Geralt observed dryly.

“Oh.” It had a certain logic to it. 

"Not much need to bandage a corpse, either. Or a spirit. Feels like Ciri did this." Geralt inclined his chin, indicating his wrapped torso. She'd grown up with witchers, knew to draw the bandages tighter than normal, to make sure any sucking wounds were sealed with oilcloth first. He doubted that there'd been time for such ministrations in Rivia.

“Perhaps. Still -- I was only just waking when Ciri departed. She said… I *think* she said that she wasn’t able to stay with us for long, in this place.”

Geralt gave a sound of acknowledgement.

But were Ciri’s words really evidence that they’d been deposited in some kind of… afterlife? Another thought struck Yennefer, then: perhaps Ciri had been fleeing something, or unwilling to attract its attention here. The Lodge, and its plans for Ciri and Yennefer both, came immediately to mind.

Golden, cat-pupiled eyes slitted open. “You just got tense.”

“Did I?” Damn his witcher’s senses. But there was no point in worrying him, not now, when there was nothing either of them could do. “Only thinking about where we could find water. If we might be alive and need it, I mean.”

And that -- was actually a greater concern than Geralt had realized, now that he thought about it. Sorcerer's depletion flooded a mage's body with a kind of toxin all its own. The sheer strain of overusing magical abilities could be just as fatal in the long term, over days or weeks, as it could be in the moment. The apples on the boughs hanging over them smelled edible, but fruit alone... wouldn’t provide enough moisture to counteract those physical effects. Yen was, in the end, only human.

Deliberately, Geralt quit thinking about any of those things, shuffled them away from the surface of his thoughts. “Water would be good. That lake of yours is sounding better and better,” Geralt admitted, slowly.

He tilted his head a little, and as always, Yennefer held her breath as if that might help him listen, though she knew it likely made no difference to him. “Downslope through the tall rosemary,” Geralt said, “a little to the right, about twenty paces. Probably the bayou we came in by. Fresh water, clean enough.” He studied her carefully. “But can you stand?”

He’d be certain to try if she couldn’t, damn him. “Of course. Just wait right here.” Yennefer slipped her fingers from Geralt’s grip.

“Mn. If you’re gone for more than a few moments--”

“Don’t be an ass. I’d like to at least wash my hands, perhaps see if there’s anything to be done about my lip,” Yennefer snapped, to conceal the trembling as she pushed herself up to her knees, waiting there until the world quit reeling so badly. Concentrating, she made it to her feet. From this angle, Geralt’s pallor seemed starker still, even the creases of his scars bled frost-white. “You could make some noise, perhaps,” she relented, after she’d caught her breath. “Help me find my way back.”

“Noise?” Geralt watched her, missing nothing.

“A tale or -- just. Something. Doesn’t matter. So I can hear you.” _Hear that you're still breathing._

“Fine.”

She turned at last away from him, hair snarled with twigs, muddied gown torn and jawline as purpling as the rosemary blossoms around her. But she could move, could walk, and Geralt couldn’t at that moment imagine anything more beautiful.

Geralt drew a slow and deliberate breath. “Did I ever tell you,” he started, “about the time I hunted a zeugl, through waist-deep….”

***


	2. Chapter 2

“Let’s find a bed,” the Witcher solved her dilemma. “It’s not right to treat books this way.”

\--The Lady of the Lake, Andrzej Sapkowski

***

 

Geralt opened his eyes to the clink-thump of his harness hitting the grass.

“The last time I heard that story,” said Yennefer, though she was looking up at the apples hanging overhead, “it was only knee-deep sewage. Which, as I recall, you proceeded to track all over my nice carpets.” A few of the fruits were low enough to reach easily, and she did so; as for the rest… well, tree-climbing was going to have to wait for another day. Limbs trembling, she eased herself down to sit beside Geralt.

“Definitely waist-deep. I was there, after all, and should know.” Geralt told her, looking over the harness with its various attached pouches, potion loops -- and scabbards. One was empty. “Any sign of the silver?”

“No. I can look again later.” Yennefer unhooked his canteen from the belt. It was rather the worse for wear, the sides scraped and dented. She unscrewed the top and sniffed it cautiously.

“Doubt it made the journey.” Geralt sighed.

Yennefer looked at him. “You went into a fight without it?” For any other man, maybe even any other witcher, she could imagine it possible. But Geralt was, well, Geralt. He’d bring the pair of swords into bed with him, if he could. Probably did, come to think of it, when she wasn’t there to banish them to the side table.

Geralt exhaled slowly, concentrating on rotating one ankle. It moved as freely the other, each tendon flexing like it should, though with considerable effort. “Hung it over the mantle. Decided to give up being a witcher.”

Yennefer gaped. It was unseemly, she knew, for a sorceress to wear such an expression, yet she could not help it.

Geralt shot her a look. “I was drunk. And damned tired of sticking my neck out, taking such risks for people who didn’t care. Not when… hm.” He went back to methodically testing each sinew and muscle of his limbs, one by one.

Not when Yennefer had promised to bring Ciri back to him, he meant. The three of them, free of Vilgefortz and the forces that had kept them all apart for so long -- or at least they had been, for those few beautiful days of travel, until the Lodge’s demands had interceded. Even then, he’d trusted her to return with Ciri safe and sound. Instead, she’d…. Yennefer rubbed her fingers over the thin, battered metal of the flask. “Watered wine?” she asked.

“Please.” If his gut really had been punctured, this was as fine a way to find out as any, Geralt figured. Yennefer slipped an arm behind his head, helped him lean up enough to take a few swallows from the flask. He drank slowly, taking care not to aspirate any -- choking would do him no good at all in his condition. The wine had somewhat turned to vinegar in the sun-heated travel flask, but even still, the taste was familiar and washed away the tang of his own blood. “You should drink,” he said, when Yennefer tipped the flask away.

She’d already taken handfuls from the river -- the water had been too cold and sweet on her face not to. But she sipped anyway, then screwed on the cap with a grimace and settled the flask in her lap. “Would any of your decoctions or herbs help?” she asked, pulling the harness closer. The small glass vials vibrated faintly in her hands, tingling to her senses as all inherently magical substances did.

“Might need the top one, there. Golden Oriole, for poisoning and wound-rot. Rather not chance the toxicity, though, unless I have to.” Swallow might be worth the risk, but the healing potions had been in their padded chest strapped to Roach’s saddlebags.

Yennefer looked him over, a frown creasing her brow. “Hm. Herbs?” She asked, fingers lingering over the buckled pouches.

Geralt made a small movement, an abbreviated shrug. “You can check. But--”

Yennefer was already slipping the buckle tongue from the leather strap. The inside of the pouch was frosted, and more spacious on the inside than it seemed from the outside. Who had placed the enchantment on it? A packet of something frozen and heavy, wrapped in darkly-stained waxed paper, was first to hand. “Geralt. Is this… why do you carry raw meat?”

“Wolf liver. Tastes fine, so long as you don’t chew it. Care for some?”

Yennefer shuddered and pushed the packet back. “Remind me never to ask about what you eat on the Path.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Last time, you tried to feed me an omelette of burnt bread and cucumbers.” Next from the bag she pulled a rather aged chicken sandwich, pot of congealed fondue, several dried fish, and a banana -- the tropical fruit was much the worse for wear. Yennefer sighed. As soon as she could draw power again, real food was first on the list. Right behind clean clothing. And a bath. Also her hairbrush, tongue scrubber, chenille towels….

“I’ll have you know, frittata di pane is a well-regarded dish in several kingdoms.” Geralt paused. “I regret the cucumbers, however. There were no olives, so -- try the other pouch. Roach had most of the alchemy supplies.”

Yennefer frowned, sorting out the contents of the small pack. Three books, twine, some fish hooks, a small brick-like object wrapped in oilcloth so as to be waterproof, a thickly-folded square of linen, a cracked axe head, various paper packets with labels she couldn’t make out well in the fading light-- “I didn’t see any sign of Roach, though there were hoofprints. No, don’t even think about it; I tried not to step on any evidence, and if it lasted one day, it can wait for tomorrow. Ah ha--” a bundle of candles emerged from the pouch, their strings tied together.

“What evidence?” Geralt’s eyes gleamed.

“Mostly? Pieces of your armor, the leather ties cut apart. I hope you have spare thongs.” Yennefer separated out a candle. A notched chunk of fallen branch, just an arm’s reach from them, served well enough as a stand. She hesitated. Lighting a candle was a novice’s cantrip, but now it felt like a barrier a mile tall stood between her and the faint trickle of power she needed. Perhaps she could….

“Hn. Couldn’t use some of yours?”

Yennerfer’s expression twisted in a grimace. “It might be some time before I can summon my storage--” She caught sight of the witcher’s wolfish grin. “Oh very amusing. I see quite well what you are trying to do. Damnation Geralt, I’ll not be distracted. Here we are, powerless and defenseless, marooned on a deserted island--”

“Can’t be sure it’s an island.”

“--both of us either dead or nearly so--”

“Enjoying an evening alone.”

“--with a sack of… of frozen wolf offal--”

“A candlelit dinner.”

“--I probably can’t even light the ploughing candle, and you’re--”

“Implying that I’d like to lace up my armor with your garters?”

“--You--” Yennefer squeezed her eyes shut against the image that invoked. Then her shoulders started to shake. In that moment, she was helpless against it. It was… he’d have to… little tufts of silk puffing up between the chainmail panels. Meeting up with other witchers, swanning past gawping drowners, good Lyrian velvet trailing along behind him all the while. It was all so ridiculously improbable.

Hand held carefully steady, Geralt traced the sign of igni in the air, and the candlewick lit itself with a faint pop. “Because I would.”

“You drive me half mad. Fine, have it your way.” Yennefer wiped her eyes with her torn blouse sleeve. But she felt lighter, somehow. “What now?”

“We think about everything else later. For now, we recover. Rest. And enjoy the time.” Geralt passed his fingers over the small paper packets, and finally held one up -- dry white petals visible through the translucent paper.

Celandine. It wasn’t much so far as painkillers went, but it’d take the edge off almost anything. Yennefer pulled the packet from between his fingers, and crushed several flowers through the paper.

There’d been a time when she’d wanted nothing but this, the two of them together, no monsters to seek or kings to sway. The thought had held so much allure for her at times: the witcher domesticated, a scar-striped tiger tamed and obedient, leashed by a silver thread for her pleasure. He’d obliged her over the years, even for months at a time. But kings had a way of interceding, and the open road must have its own strange call. Or sometimes she, fearing the steady creep of the routine, had turned away. Then he’d be gone, a posy of violets where his swords had been. How she’d plotted his demise those first times, sworn her vengeance!

Time had plastered over those wounds, both self-inflicted and otherwise -- but it had been Ciri who’d finally closed them. She might be lost to them now, alone, a wanderer betwixt worlds. Yet… what good could either of them do her, like this, if indeed they could do anything? Thinking over Geralt’s plan, such as it was, Yennefer carefully tilted a dose of powdered celandine into the canteen of truly awful wine, sealed it, and gave it a good shake. “I don’t think either of us in any shape to enjoy this time as I’d like.”

“Tomorrow,” Geralt promised, sipping from the flask when she assisted him. He grimaced for the taste. “As for tonight…” his fingers scudded through the scattering of herb packets and came to rest on the small brick-like object.

Yennefer helped him unwrap it. Her nails, broken though they were, were still better at catching the edges of the thickly waxed fabric. Then she saw the contents, and heaved a sigh.

Geralt smiled slowly, showing teeth. “Care for a round of gwent?”

 

***

 

It actually took them two days.

This was mostly because of well-earned exhaustion -- they slept through the greater part of the next day. The witcher woke Yennefer several times to urge her to drink or eat, and once to help him to the nearby bushes when he could no longer safely restrict the flow of blood to his kidneys. He was too weak to stand unaided, though at least he could support most of his own weight. But otherwise they slept as if dead in truth, a deep, healing sleep, and they both grew measurably stronger with every passing hour. The night when it came was clear but colder, and the sorceress gradually confiscated the entire sheet of linen, her body pressed against the banked fire of Geralt’s mutant metabolism.

It gave him an excuse to hold her close until morning, to feel the thrum of her heartbeat against his own chest. She mostly smelled like dew and woodchips now, just a trace of her perfume remaining, even to his senses. But that bitter tang to her scent had largely faded. He could trace the healthier flow of her circulation, a soft murmur as blood filtered through the fibers of her flesh. Beautiful, that sound -- he would know it anywhere.

The sunrise finally woke her, and the change in her breathing lifted Geralt from his meditative trance. She lay quietly in his arms for a time. “I must smell awful,” she said at last.

Geralt nuzzled her hair, exhalation warm over her scalp. “That isn’t the term I’d use.” Under the thin linen, his fingers stroked slowly, finding silken skin through the tears in her blouse.

Yennefer made an unladylike sound. “You may be accustomed to going days on end without so much as a bath, but I-- oh.” She jerked against him as Geralt’s calloused fingers found her flank, and then the curve of her hip, smoothing her gown aside in favor of warm, soft skin. “Geralt--” whatever warning she might have intended was swallowed by a gasp as those fingers unerringly found every sensitive place, raising shudders of sensation, circling each opening afforded by the lace underthings.

“Easy,” Geralt murmured against the place just behind her ear. “Not going to strain anything. Don’t worry.”

“Not your wounds I’m worried about--” Yennefer lied, and then sucked in a hard breath as his fingertips stroked down from her navel, dipped under the edge of the panties. His fingers trailed afterimages of sensation, a tingling that went deeper than flesh. Inherently magical substances… and inherently magical creatures. It was so easy to forget, the sheer bliss of this strange thing between them, and it felt like she learned it anew every time he touched her.

“Mn. Not going to tear these, either,” Geralt told her, smoothing his fingers through her curls, the warm humidity of the juncture of her thighs. “Not now. Later. When I can use my teeth.” He pressed into her, the slicked roughness of a calloused finger sliding just where she needed it.

Yennefer bucked hard, hips jerking of their own volition. “Nnngh--” she tried to keep her hands close, lest she accidentally put pressure on his bandages. But a few more strokes, slow, languid, and she couldn’t -- the sorceress reached for him, desperate and yet trying to be so careful, nails clutching at his trousers, the hard planes of his ass.

Obligingly, Geralt moved a little, knee nudging at hers, and she spread willingly for his thigh. Now with more room to attend to her, his strokes evened out, deepened, two fingers dipping into her, thumb dragging roughened texture over her clit. He found the rhythm she loved best in moments, and she rocked with it, cried out with it. So damned _talented._

He didn’t make her wait, just driving her fast and hard, breath hot on her scalp. “Love you, Yen,” Geralt murmured against her hair, and it was too much. She clenched down on his fingers, muscles spasming. Aching pleasure crested in a bright-edged wave, a stormbreak, and Yennefer cried out against his sternum, all the world breaking apart in pieces, like stars reflected in a pool suddenly disturbed.

When she could see again, they both were breathing hard. He drew his fingers out of her, slowly, every careful movement setting off a new shiver of clenching ripples. He held her for a time, cupping overstimulated flesh, until the shudders eased. Only then did he move his hand, expertly navigating the fragile lace. “See? Nothing torn,” Geralt said, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.

Yennefer moved, tilted her head languidly, every muscle lax, just enough to look up at him. Geralt’s pupils were blown so wide, he could almost have passed for human. She watched him lift his hand... and slowly lick her moisture from his fingers.

And oh, that image. Yennefer wetted her lips, reached for the front plate of his armored breeches -- and froze. “Geralt.”

“Hn?”

Her breath left her in a shudder. “You're wrong about that, witcher.”

There was new crimson on his bandages, stark against the dried and flaking russet.

 

***

 

Quick note: Magical tingly touch is totally a thing, I swear. Triss remarks on it several times in the Blood of Elves novel, so, yep. No wonder witchers have become an endangered species, amirite?


End file.
